


Handling a Little Tension

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:04:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which the Holmes brothers could have taken over the British government in a month but didn't, Mrs Hudson still denies being anybody's housekeeper, and John finds out a little more about Sherlock's mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handling a Little Tension

**Author's Note:**

> It's about time I started putting my fic on AO3. *whistles* Yes, well, always good to have a place to archive things. The first BBC!Sherlock fic I wrote, for wave_of_sorrow on LJ. The story takes place several months, possibly about a year, after what happened in ASP and disregards whatever happened in TBB and TGG.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock and John in their current incarnation belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss who, I’ve been told, were funded by BBC. Thank you, gentlemen, for not botching up these two; I promise to return them in mint condition asap.

Another day over, another case solved. A new one already in the works.

“Your mother must be so proud of you, Sherlock! I know I would be,” Mrs Hudson offers with a warm smile and a wink before excusing herself to brew a herbal remedy, ‘for my hip, dear, you understand’.

John thinks Mrs Hudson is on herbal remedies the better part of her time. She must be; nobody who is sober and _paying attention_ would miss the tightening of Sherlock’s jaw, the way his eyes glance at the drawer where he keeps the nicotine patches. John watches Sherlock turn his head to look at him and make a subtle effort to relax his muscles.

“My mother was never very understanding,” he offers from the sofa in a clear attempt to ward off any subsequent questions before John manages to work up the courage to ask anything.

Of what? John wonders. Your frightening intelligence? Your need to work constantly to stimulate your mind? Your borderline sociopathy?

“Your feud with Mycroft?” John is doing his damnedest to appear casual. He has never pried into Sherlock’s family life beyond the existence of his brother because it has felt too much like an intrusion upon something that is really none of his business. Secretly John knows that he is afraid of knowing too much about Sherlock, afraid that he might accidentally unravel the mystery he has become fond of and that it would lose its allure once he knew the answer.

Sherlock gives him a long-suffering look that has become familiar by now, comforting, and closes his eyes. “No. My personality. My intelligence. My work.”

Of you, John concludes in the quiet of his mind.

Sherlock’s clasped hands are relaxed, much like the rest of him, and in spite of his training John would probably think him dead if not for the fact that his chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He risks studying Sherlock’s form freely now that the man can’t see him, can’t see his eyes or what is in them. On his more paranoid days John thinks that Sherlock can see him _anyway_ , eyes closed or not.

Maybe if John were to close his own eyes, Sherlock would not see quite so much?

Sherlock’s knuckles are turning whiter, John observes and opens his mouth to break the oppressive silence. “She doesn’t approve of your work? Does she think it’s too dangerous?”

“No. Apparently she thinks I’m wasting my time.”

John splutters. “What—How can she—You’ve saved lives! How, how can she think that it is a waste of time?”

There is no answer. Sherlock’s lips are thin and dreadfully pale and the sofa creaks when he shifts and settles down, perfectly still yet again. John is reminded of his earlier impression, but dead men seldom clasp their hands so tightly they tremble.

“Sherlock? Why does she think you are wasting your time?”

“Can we not drop this subject, John?” Sherlock is talking through clenched teeth, the muscles of his jaw clearly outlined under his pale skin and most likely painfully tense. “I truly have no wish to discuss it.”

“You didn’t object earlier. Your mother wanted you to become a politician? Parliament?”

“I counted on you to _figure it out!_ ” Sherlock bellows, sitting up. His eyes are bright, bright, bright, and he bares his teeth at John like a wolf with its hind leg stuck between the metallic jaws of a trap.

His trap generally wears faded jeans and too-thin jumpers at home, prefers to sit in the armchair facing the sofa and adopts a pinched expression when being yelled at. John doesn’t want to know all the answers, but maybe he would appreciate the mystery even more if he understood it just a little better.

“You count on me often?”

Sherlock blinks, momentarily confused by the change of subject. “Always,” he replies softly, apparently not even having to think about it.

Then count on me to help you with this, John thinks, eyes open. “You didn’t want to get involved in the mess that passes for politics here?” he guesses.

“I... desired a more direct course of action. One man in a party can only do so much.” Sherlock is hesitant when he places his feet on the floor with a thump and makes room for John, his forehead creased and his eyes still wary. “My mother thinks I should have done what Mycroft did.” He chuckles bitterly. “Between the two of us we could probably have taken over the whole government in less than a month.”

John feels chilled. “Oh.”

“It took Mycroft nearly a _year_. I never let him forget that.”

Startled, John laughs at Sherlock’s smug expression. “I’m sure you don’t.” He swallows, unsure of what to do or say. “So... your mother thinks that helping the Met is—”

“A waste of time because I could be taking care of matters that are of national importance instead of their pedestrian problems.” Sherlock echoes his mother’s distasteful tone perfectly, pitching his voice high and flawlessly projecting the image of a stern upper-class woman with high hopes for both her sons. The stage has lost an incredible actor. “Yes. Mycroft agrees with her and claims that every time he’s forced to tell her I’m still living in this hovel - his words, not mine - and helping out the bumbling idiots at the Yard - entirely my own opinion - John, don’t look at me like that, you know Lestrade is the only one who shows _any_ promise - she has an attack of nerves.”

John decides that the rest of the Holmes family can rot for all he cares; he never liked Mycroft much anyway. Cautiously, he places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Their opinion matters to you that much?”

Sherlock glances at him and snorts. “Your attempt at making me feel better is as obvious as it is welcome.”

Used to his sarcasm, John nearly draws his hand away before his brain fully deciphers the sharp words. He squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder gently instead, leaning back on the sofa and biting his lip to keep his mouth shut.

They continue to sit side by side, John’s large hand on Sherlock’s deceptively bony-looking shoulder, until the room is dark and only the light in the kitchen illuminates their living room. John’s thigh is twinging with pain and he must have given it away somehow although he doesn’t think he has moved; Sherlock starts and stands up without a visible cue.

“I think that about fills my quota for being comforted,” he explains, clearing his throat.

For the week? John wonders idly.

“At least for the month, I think.”

Immediately he looks away, afraid of Sherlock’s piercing eyes. “I get it,” he nods with a rueful smile and unconsciously makes a defensive gesture. “No touching.”

Sherlock’s surprised expression stretches into something approaching a genuine smile. He bends down and leans forward, contorting his long body to be able to look John in the eye. “No touching,” he confirms and keeps leaning further and further until John is neatly pressed into the cushions and unable to escape. A mere fraction of a breath lingers between their lips. “At all.”

John is afraid that either of them will move, and it will all be too soon.

Sherlock pulls away abruptly, turns on his heel and hollers for Mrs Hudson to bring tea so that he can solve his new case. With a flourish that could be more dramatic only if he had his long coat on, he marches into the bedroom and closes the door firmly behind himself.

Full fifteen seconds tick by until John is up and banging his fist on it, ignoring Mrs Hudson reminding Sherlock that she is not their housekeeper. “You are going to cause me a heart attack one of these days!” John yells through the door, the fluttering feeling in his chest making him unsure of whether he wants to laugh or cry.

“You are a war veteran! Can’t you handle a little tension?” Sherlock yells back. John can picture his grin, the way his nose wrinkles just a little when he is amused. “We have a case underway, John, and I do so prefer to give important matters my full attention.”

John thinks that he could bury his head entirely in sand and somehow Sherlock would _still_ manage to figure out what he was thinking. He reckons it might not be a wholly bad thing. “And then?”

The door opens a crack. “And then,” Sherlock repeats solemnly, only one eye and a part of his face visible, “we shall see. I have high hopes for this experiment.” He holds up a hand to silence John before he can protest the wording and continues. “Who knows, I might even turn it into a study. They can easily take _years_ to complete, John. Did you know that da Vinci never quite managed to perfect his plan for the helicopter?”

“I’m aware.” He is breathless, John decides, because his head doesn’t seem to work properly, it feels dizzy and light and he's afraid it might just float away any moment now.

He can only stare as Sherlock offers him a sly smile and pulls back. “Good. Now, give me the night to think, and tomorrow we shall discreetly lead Lestrade to his criminal _du jour_ so that he can take all the credit for my hard work. They’d probably promote Sergeant Donovan to Detective Inspector if Lestrade was demoted, and we absolutely cannot let that happen.” The door snicks shut between them.

John stares, gives a bemused laugh and walks away with a silly grin on his face. He flops back on the sofa, switches on the news channel.

He’s looking forward to next month.


End file.
